15 comments:

Tom, beautiful. There is, in my addled brain, a movement in the artwork from present photographic reality to historic past, like tracing a river back to its (artistic) source.

Seems I'm lost and no doubt will be walking, head first, into a scratchy pine any minute. All this fog!

And a memory, perhaps, recaptured in the poem? Very nice. (I wrote a poem in a little notepad I keep by the bed, in the middle of the night without the light, a while back, so as not to wake up Laurie, and discovered I hadn't turned the page since the last one and ended up with an unreadable palimpsest, which I am very proud of).

Now that you've admitted it, I'm going to have to confess that the entirety of my own latterday poetic "output" (including this piece and the one beneath) has occurred under exactly those same circumstances.

I'm afraid I'd never have the courage - we would discover two bad poems, one atop the other. It is so much more romantic (Tom, I never thought PM - now that I have, I'll try not to think it again) a notion that there are two little immortal pieces, lost forever.

Tom, I have discovered that my handwriting in the dark is generally much more readable than it is normally which doesn't say much about my mental quietude and emotional stability.

It is quite nice to know that there is fine company at 3am, albeit we are all alone together ... and now that I think of all those thousand hands reaching for all those shades again, it may be time to go back to sleep.

As a matter of fact the "D" batteries in the bedside torch are (like the sad sack in the sack) down to a feeble glimmer. And so, as we come to the shortest (also perhaps coldest) night of the year, the rhetorical question "Where?" seems to multiply in its interrogative reverberations.